


Sanandum

by justanotherStonyfan



Series: Honey Honey [18]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, M/M, Showers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-02
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-10-02 13:33:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17265107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanotherStonyfan/pseuds/justanotherStonyfan
Summary: “I think that’s everything,” James says, because he thinks it is. Wait, new sheets? Oh, wait, no, he already changed the bedsheets. And he’ll find blankets and all sorts, he’s gonna wrap Steve up like a gift on Christmas if that’s what Steve wants, make him a nest of pillows or a pile of blankets, find him soft sweaters and loose pants. “Is that everything?”Sam glances at him, smiles to himself.“Probably,” Sam says.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In the next few chapters, there’s going to be wound discussion. It’s not avoidable because it’s throughout, but it doesn’t get graphic until chapter 3. If you’re not okay with that, skip the first part of chapter three, which is the detailed description of Steve’s healing wounds, and instead Ctrl+F the words _I’m gonna be okay_ which should take you past it and drop you at the beginning of the next scene.
> 
> I also don’t recommend googling the medical phrasing at the beginning of chapter 3 unless you have no problem with gore, because I’m describing (and searching will therefore yield pictures of) severe gunshot inflicted injury.
> 
> I'll repeat this note at the start of that chapter but, for now - **Police Camera Action voice:** Viewer discretion advised.

On Friday evening, James takes his phonecalls. 

He calls his sister first, because she’s sent him so many messages he’s starting to worry about her phone bill, and then he calls his mom, because it still feels like the best option even though he’s twenty-one. They talk for hours, and someohow say almost nothing at the same time, and James is grateful for the few hours he doesn’t have to think.

The weekend passes the same way the other days have - long, dragging days by Steve’s bed, while Steve sleeps. And sleeps. And sleeps. 

James has thought some terrible things, some not so terrible, has considered some dark futures and talked himself out of them. If Steve is injured and becomes paraplegic, becomes quadriplegic, becomes brain-dead, will he recover? If he doesn’t, will he have care-staff, will James have to feed him, will James have to bathe him, will James have to change his diaper?

He panics, because he doesn’t want Steve to die and he doesn’t want Steve to be locked inside his own head and only able to blink to communicate, and he doesn’t want Steve to be gone completely but his body keep on breathing and his heart keep on beating, if Steve becomes a shell, will James have to turn off his machines?

“Alright,” Wanda says, and she reaches out and pulls him into a hug, rubs his back as he wheezes, while Steve sleeps on. “Alright, breathe, just focus on my voice and try to breathe. Remember the serum.”

Six days after Steve is shot in the line of duty, on the following Monday, James goes into work. He has not been sleeping well in the recovery room with Steve, and he feels that a large part of his terrible nights is probably that he’s not allowed in Steve’s bed. Another part is the incessant beeping that Steve seems oblivious to - still, James supposes, if you spend a good portion of your life in a medical facility, you’re going to get used to some aspects.

“Irony,” Steve mumbles one afternoon, “is being made so good at something that all your problems are worse.”

He means, of course, that it used to be that he was always in need of medical assistance, never able to sleep properly, couldn’t get enough to eat. Then he got the serum and the captaincy and, with them, sleepless nights, an insatiable appetite and, you guessed it, regular need of medical assistance. 

He improves during the week that James is there but consumes only liquids (mostly) by mouth, the rest coming in by IV. He actually loses weight, too - James just realizes one day that he’s seeing the bones in Steve’s wrist, that the beard is covering sunken cheekbones.

“S’okay,” Steve says. “Still gettin’ nutes, just…not the food. Y’know?”

So he’s not surprised, really he’s not, that Amy sees how terrible he looks. And he knows she’s smart, knows she’s so smart it hurts, knows she’ll figure everything out eventually. 

“You look like shit,” she says, and he smiles tightly.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s the wrong thing to say.

He should have said _I feel like shit_ or _that makes two of us,_ but he doesn’t have the energy and it’s a mistake he ought to know better than to make.

“Hey,” she says, and she touches his arm.

He’s nervous, because he did his laundry at the weekend and it smelled like the recovery room - sterile, chemical; does it linger on his skin?

“Sorry,” he says, logging on. “It’s been a bit of a shit week.”

“Aw, I’m sorry,” she says, and he coughs, covers his mouth and tries to make it sounds as genuine as possible. 

“It’s okay,” he says. “I’m getting over it.”

When he glances at her, she’s frowning, and it’s because she believes him but also knows he’s hiding something.

“Okay,” she says. “I’m here if you want to talk.”

James wonders if Jarvis is listening to their conversation.

“Thanks,” he says, regardless, and settles in to work, not that he expects to get much done.

One of James’ main issues (aside from the obvious) is that he had to feign the remnants of a cold following his sudden absence, and he _knows_ Amy suspects something. He hopes it’s just that she suspects he’s still so into Captain America that he needed a day off when he heard Steve was shot, but he’s betting she’ll be asking him some pretty difficult-to-lie-about questions fairly soon. She’s not stupid, and he’s not subtle - not really. But please, not now. Not while he’s already dealing with so much.

He knows for sure he doesn’t deserve a friend like her when she doesn’t push any further.

~

In one of Steve’s more lucid moments, he tells James to try sleeping in their bed downstairs for a night, to try and get a good night of sleep. James does it because Sam thinks it might be a good idea.

He comes back after an hour, in his pajamas and slippers, on edge and anxious, when all the lights are out and the night-shift is on, because he can’t bear to be away. The bed is huge and cold without Steve’s warmth, the room is quiet without his breathing, empty without his presence. But it’s not his absence that’s so wrong, it’s knowing the _reason_ for it. James could spend hours in Steve’s apartment alone, it’s no concern, but sitting alone because Steve’s too injured to join him makes it all the worse, all the emptier. No gentle breathing, no clink of tags, no near-silent footsteps.

Steve is fast asleep when James gets there, low, cool lights glowing soft behind his headboard, along the back of the dado rail. Coupled with the near-silence of the few monitors that now remain, the hiss-click of the oxygen mask he’s been given to wear at night, and the scent of disinfectant and clean vinyl flooring, James feels half-like he’s sitting in a showroom, or maybe an aircraft cabin at night. He can smell fresh paint, varnished wood, everything is new and clean and he wants to have Steve safe in the warmly-lit, vanilla-air-freshened, cologne-and-soap-scented bedroom they share. This feels dangerous, somehow - on the edge of something, as though the room itself waits for something to go wrong.

From here, their bedroom feels like a haven, and James longs to bring Steve back into the loving safety of his own home, to surround him with blankets and pillows and hold him close.

“I love you,” he whispers, resting one hand on Steve’s forearm, just for a moment. 

Steve’s still in his gray clothes, little raised patches belying the dressings beneath. He’s been getting very, very mild PT for his hip when James has been at work, and complaining about not being able to eat in between long naps. His breath fogs the oxygen mask, his body thinner, bones more visible.

James gets into the spare bed and lies on his side - he doesn’t usually sleep on this side, hates it, but this lets him see Steve - and does his best to sleep.

~

There’s still dried blood on the chain of Steve’s tags, and James wets a facecloth and starts to clean the blood away.

When he lifts the chain, Steve twitches, and then _grabs him_ and, eyes dark and glassy as he stares at James with a furrowed brow, says,

 _“No,”_ in a voice that’s both hard and rough.

James lets the chain fall from his fingers.

“Sorry, you can keep it,” he says, because it’s easier than trying to explain what he was actually doing. 

Steve slips back into sleep and, soon, his brow smooths out again.

~

James doesn’t see Natasha Romanov again, although Clint Barton drops by one afternoon. James is watching a YouTube video while Steve talks quietly to Tony Stark, and he's ignoring what they’re saying because he doesn’t want to be pissed at Tony Stark no matter how much talking he’s making Steve do.

Steve’s voice is rough but steady, his breathing still a little thin, and his hair is now thick and fluffy and halfway down to his shoulders. He’s got original-Han-Solo-hair going (another of James’ old crushes, maybe he totally does have a type), along with the thick beard, and he and Stark are talking about things James knows he’s only allowed to hear because he’s doing his best to ignore it - mainly mission statistics, confirmations, clarifiations - it’s a debrief. Nothing classified, obviously, but Steve didn’t get the chance for one because he’d been fucking shot, so they’re doing it now. Clint Barton is in a hospital gown with an IV stand, and he’s not even _still_ injured. He got the cradle, got cleared for duty, and then fell off a building, so he’s injured _again_.

“What are we watching?” he says, and James tilts the screen so and Clint can see. 

It’s James’ favorite storm-chaser talking about the latest storm cell he encountered. The sound's off and James has the captions on because, although James knows he could never do what this guy does, the videos are amazing to watch. Tumultuous turquoise skies, clouds that look like saucers or bubble wrap, and sparks of lightning that stretch _upward_ as well as down with bright red bursts seemingly up amongst the stars. Strange that such chaos should calm his nerves, but it works. 

Clint perches on the arm of the chair James is sitting in.

“I’m wearing underwear,” he murmurs, and then he puts his arm on the back of James’ chair and watches his video with him. He picks the next one, too - some video about F-h category (fucking-huge, the description supplies) tornadoes. 

“Is the bodycam,” Steve says, and draws a rasping breath, “still available?”

“Yep. One of the things that _didn’t_ get shot.”

“Good,” Steve says. “Can you find out…who we were up against?”

“Already got it,” Stark answers. “Some terrorist something or other, who cares at this point? All neutralized.”

The way Stark says it leaves no room for doubt what that means.

“I have another…week in here, probably,” Steve says. “Didn’t even…get a good look…at the damage yet. Nobody’s giving me…the paperwork.”

“Leave the paperwork to us, Cap,” Clint says, without looking up from the video. 

James watches a huge funnel break apart a farm like it’s nothing more than matchsticks.

“Gari says I’ve…lost a nipple,” Steve mutters.

James looks up.

“What?” he says, and then a million things occur to him all at once, not least _awh no_ and _could be worse._

“It’ll grow back,” Steve says, and James blinks at him. 

Steve smiles wanly behind a beard that looks too dark for his face on such pale skin. 

“Right,” James says.

He goes back to his video a moment or two later, while Steve talks to Stark again, but he's tiring, his words burbling together as his energy fades again.

“I wanna geddouda…this damned room.”

“Easy there, Old Man,” Stark says, and Steve subsides, sinks into his cushions. “I can go get your walker if you-”

“Make any jokes about-” Steve draws a breath as his lashes sweep down “-my hip, and I’ll test it out by kickin’ your ass.”

***

James’ second week at work is utter bullshit. He gets nothing done.

He’s spoken to Dr Aman once or twice, sometimes while Steve’s been awake but sometimes, inescapably, while Steve’s been sleeping, and they’re hopeful about moving him downstairs come the weekend.

Steve is evidently displeased by this - James doesn’t doubt he’d rather be in his spacious Brooklyn conversion. But the apartment in the tower is, first and foremost, monitored by Jarvis. And, another plus for a man with a fractured hip, it's all on one level - there are no stairs or raised thresholds to navigate in the tower, and James wouldn’t be surprised if that had been deliberately factored into the design.

The bathroom is near to the bed, the bed isn’t far from the couch, the couch is within walking distance of the kitchen. And, according to Dr Aman, Steve should be able to start walking by the weekend.

“Are you kidding?” James says at one point, but Dr Aman smiles patiently.

“The Commander’s metabolism runs-” he begins, and Steve says,

“Call me Steve.”

“-four times faster than the average athletic human male - of course, Steve - and a great deal of his other processes are similarly enhanced. As you may be aware, his resting heart rate can be as low as forty-five beats per minute, for example so, where we would begin to consider discharge for an ordinary patient at around a month to six months for injuries like the ones the Commander-” Steve sighs “-has suffered to his hip and thorax, the serum reduces this timescale to approximately a fortnight for gunshot wounds, and a month before he ought to be walking fairly normally.”

“I won’t even scar,” Steve says, looking mildly smug. 

“Two weeks for a gunshot?”

Dr Aman tilts his head.

“Give or take,” he says. “We like to say, conservatively, six months - twenty-four weeks - for GSW in an average human. So, six weeks considering the metabolic markup. And a fractured hip is four to sixteen weeks for an average human being to return to their average job, for which we suggest one to four for the commander before beginning low-level training.” He points at Steve’s torso. “Broken ribs usually take approximately six weeks, but the serum will be targeting more severe injuries first, and so they will be healed by the weekend, rather than by midweek.”

James gapes for a long few moments, looks at Steve a moment later.

“So you’ve got time off or what?” he says. “What’s ‘low-level’ training?”

Dr Aman holds up his tablet, turns it first so that Steve can see, and then for James.

“Two months, from discharge,” he says. “Following discharge, one rotation deskbound.”

“Aw, come on, Doc,” Steve says, but Dr Aman smiles, shrugs. 

“Better than two,” he says, and then he turns to James. “Low-level training is walking. Refrain from sparring until your leave is over.”

Steve draws a fairly large breath - winces, yeah okay, ribs not healed yet - and sighs heavily through his nose.

“You got it, Doc,” he says, and James feels his eyebrows go up.

Steve gives him a look, and Dr Aman goes off to do whatever Dr Aman is going off to do.

“ ‘You got it doc?’ ” James imitates, enunciating clearly, for the comedic value.

“Man’s never been wrong so far,” he says. “Much as I loathe sittin' doin' nothin'.”

James blinks for a few moments, shakes his head.

“Good,” he says. “Doctor’s orders, right?”

Steve’s mouth twists and his brow furrows.

“God, I really want pizza.”

~

On Thursday, James has brought milkshakes for both of them - vanilla for Steve, and caramel-gingerbread for himself - when Dr Aman comes back, with Gari and some paperwork.

Gari busies himself with reading the instruments, but he also unloads a couple of different containers from his pockets. James notices them but doesn’t say anything for the time being.

“This looks good,” Steve says, glancing at Gari, and then at James, before he looks at Dr Aman. “I leavin’?”

“Providing you adhere to your assigned therapies and keep up with your check-ins, there’s no reason not to let you,” Dr Aman says, and then smiles. “The usual monitoring should suffice, besides which you’ll have,” Dr Aman turns to James and James feels his eyebrows go up, “your young man with you?”

“Well,” Steve says, like he’s not sure, and James frowns at him.

“Yeah, he will,” he says, and hopes the unspoken _duh_ comes across. 

Dr Aman nods.

“Then I see no reason you shouldn’t retire to your apartment tomorrow evening. Say after the end of the work day? That way you can be present.”

James nods, looks at Steve.

“That sounds great,” he says. “Do you want me to come straight up after work?”

Steve winces.

“Could you hang out in the apartment?” he says. “There’s some stuff they gotta do first that’s…sensitive.”

Right, James thinks, like remove the catheter, for example.

“Sure,” James says. “You can get Jarvis to tell me when you’re ready. Right?”

Steve nods.

“Right.”

Dr Aman checks a couple of things, talks to Steve a little more about his injuries, and then leaves. Gari explains the various containers - all nutrients, aside from a little bottle of painkillers that James is only allowed to handle with gloves.

“They’re only for emergencies but be careful. Potent is the wrong word,” Gari says. “More like potentially-fatal.” He holds up the bottle, shakes it once. “One, if for some reason we’re unavailable. Half if you can’t sleep for the pain but your ego’s to big to call upstairs.” He turns to James. “I’ll give you some nitrile gloves before you go at lunch tomorrow. Yes?”

James nods. 

“ _Grazie,_ ” he says, and Gari beams, winks.

 _“Prego,”_ he says, and turns to Steve. “You can start your nutrients tomorrow,” he says, and points at one box. “two with meals, four with your evening meal-”

“Four?” Steve says, looking surprised.

 _“Quattro_ ,” Gari answers with a nod, holding up four fingers. “You get shot four times, you have to take more nutes.”

Steve raises his eyebrows.

“Okay,” he says. “I’ll remember.”

“And one of these twice a day at least,” Gari continues, pointing at another box. “Don’t worry, we took out the banana.”

Steve makes a little noise.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s awful.”

“I’ll take your word,” Gari chuckles. “You should be able to start on lighter solids tomorrow, too - chicken soup, broths, polenta maybe, lighter comfort food.”

“Does it need to be high calorie?” James asks, because it occurs to him, and Gari tilts his head from side to side.

“Yes, if you can - there are the nutes if you can’t - but just…you know, add peanut butter and chocolate for sweet dishes, paté and butter for savory. Nothing heavy, but you can pull together comforting ingredients fairly easily - especially this time of year. Warm drinks, lots of fluids, plenty of rest. You know all this, of course?” 

Steve nods slowly, lifts a couple of fingers in James’ direction.

“James doesn’t, though,” he says. “You gettin’ all this?”

“Sure thing, Mr Photographic Memory,” James answers. “Every word.”

Steve smiles a little, Gari chuckles softly.

“If you’re happy,” Gari says, “then, barring any reason you might call me, I will see you tomorrow. Yes?”

“Yeah,” Steve says and, to James’ surprise but apparently not Steve’s, Gari turns to look at him, too, eyebrows raised.

“Uh…yeah?” James says, and Gari smiles.

“Alright then,” he says. “I will see you tomorrow.”

James smiles as he leaves, feels it slip a little once the door closes behind him.

“I’m sorry about this, sweetheart,” Steve says, his voice quiet despite the relative silence of the room. “How are you holding up?”

And, to be fair, it’s not the first time he’s asked. It’s the first time he’s been mostly awake during James’ visit, though, which James is given to understand is a good sign. 

“I’m good,” he says. “Didn’t get shot, haven’t broken any bones, you know how it is.”

Steve looks pained - emotionally though, not physically. 

“You seem unhappy,” he says, “me bein’ injured aside.”

James shakes his head.

“There is no ‘aside’,” he says. “You got shot four times-”

“I’m sorry, honey, but I-”

“You don’t gotta be sorry!” James says, probably a little louder than he meant to. “Sorry. I’m sorry, you just…you don’t have to apologize or explain it to me or whatever, it’s just…I love you and you got shot. Like a _lot_. There’s nothing else, _that’s_ why I’m upset. And I know you’re fine, just lemme worry a little.”

Steve nods slowly, still looks concerned. 

“Okay so...listen, there are a couple things we need to talk about,” he says, “and none of them are remotely about breaking up or seeing less of each other so breathe.” James totally is breathing, why would Steve even ask. “That's better,” he says. “Sorry.”

Oh right, yeah, because James thought his life was over, it's fine. 

“I need you to understand something,” Steve tells him, “because I’ve been talking to my friends today, some of whom happen to be Avengers, and this is something that might come up again, and something that might be relevant.”

James nods.

“Yeah, of course,” he says, and Steve smiles a little, reaches out and takes James' hand.

“Now listen,” he says, “I know you know that I love you. And I’m happy to tell you again - I love you. But I need you to understand that my association to you is not relevant during an emergency.” James feels himself frown. What? “If there's an emergency, you're a citizen. You're like every other citizen, and I cannot prioritize you. I can't stop what I'm doing to find you or put you first in line-”

“Oh my God,” James says, the painful squeeze in his chest easing immediately, “oh my God, I thought you meant you don't _care_ about me during an emergency, oh wow, oh no.”

“No!” Steve says, horrified. “No, I mean-”

“You've got a job and you have to do it,” James says. “Yeah, that's okay. Steve, that's fine, that- I know that. You can't put me first just 'cause we're dating, that's like Hero One-Oh-One. I know this-you and Commander-You are two different guys, you don't have to tell me that.” 

Steve draws a deep breath and lets it out slowly.

“Well, okay, wow,” he says. “You took that...” and then he tilts his head from side to side. “Let's be honest, I should've known you'd take it that well, it's just I worry. And I don't want you to think that I...oh, I don't know. If they evacuate the building and I don't stop on my way running past to make sure you're okay, I didn't want you to think it's because I don't care.”

James squeezes Steve’s fingers.

“I used to watch this show,” he says. “My Dad really liked it, about these guys who were like you guys. I mean, not superheroes but, it was like, it was this crime show. They solved problems and helped people. And so like two of the characters were dating and they weren't supposed to because it would apparently compromise the team but one of 'em got like, I don't know, shot or something, I don't remember. But the other one left them to do the right thing. So, like, they proved that it wouldn't get in the way of the job. And that's what you're saying, right? You can't let me get in the way of the job?”

Steve looks pained again, opens his mouth.

“No but,” James says, cutting him off, “I wouldn't want to get in the way of the job. Like maybe I wouldn't like it if just anybody said they'd count me like anyone else. But not everybody does it like you do, right? You....like, with you, every person is a person. When some people say that, it'd mean I'm another face in the crowd or sheep in the sheep. Herd.”

“Flock.”

“Flock, right,” James says. “How did I forget the word 'flock'? But that's,” he shakes his head. “But with you, that makes me another life. You're, you see everyone. I've seen how you treat civilians, and not just civilians. You do everything you can for everybody you can. So I think I'm okay if you count me as a human being. You know?”

Steve is searching James' face, a smile on his lips that seems distant somehow.

“Man,” he says. “I know a couple guys would'a loved to meet you.” And then, after a moment or two, he seems to come back to himself a little. “Well I'm glad you understand. But the other thing is, I’m gonna get injured. Like Portugal, and China. And-”

“I know,” James says, rubs the back of Steve’s wrist. “I don’t like it but I’m not going to stop you doing it. You know? Like I already said, it’s your job. I understand that. As long as you can understand I’m gonna take it badly when the guy I love takes bullets.”

Steve nods.

“I understand,” he says. “I appreciate you not makin’ me choose, for another thing. And also there’s some new protocols I can instate now.”

James feels his eyebrows go up but doesn't say anything.

“I meant what I said to your family - I want you to consider a tracker,” Steve says. “Especially if we go public but even if we don’t. I know it’s annoying and we’d have to put one in every item of clothing, ‘cause subcutaneous can end badly. But it’s a good idea.”

James chuckles. 

“Right,” he says. “So Mr Stark knows where I am if I call in sick?”

“Presumably,” Steve answers mildly. “Or, y'know, when someone pulls that 'send me fifty million or your precious toyboy is toast' thing.”

“Pft, fifty, as if.”

“Mm, I thought it was a little high as well,” Steve says, and James drops his mouth open in feigned outrage.

Steve laughs quietly, not enough to jar his stomach.

“But the tracker thing is something I want you to think about,” he says. “I’ve got one in my uniform, one in the stitching in my straps on the shield. You know I usually just swallow a capsule before a mission. But my point, the reason we're talking about this, is that, whenever you're in the tower, you now have a set of functions that can be helpful in difficult situations.”

James cocks his head in question, and Steve shifts against the pillows.

“For example,” he says, “if there's a point at which you know I've been brought back injured, your clearance now allows you to come see me. It's called Cohabitational Access, and it means you've got access to a bit more information, as well as a bit more freedom to move, when it concerns your relationship with me. Okay?”

“Okay,” James says, and puts on his best Christmas-morning face. “So what do I get?” 

Steve smiles.

“You can now say to Jarvis, 'take me to Steve,' and his compliance will now include scenarios like this. You know? Like, me being injured, or me being in a meeting. You won't be able to get into operating theaters or into Avenger facilities, but you will be able to come all the way up to the door to wait outside so you can sit down, instead of being stuck at the elevators. You can ask Jarvis to alert me if you're in serious trouble, and you've also got access to the panic-room feature, because there are hiding places around the building. When you ask, anyone accompanying you will be taken into account unless Jarvis' algorithms read them as hostile. So 'find me a panic room' will get you space for you and, for example, Amy, if there's a problem, but won't find you a place for you and the guy chasing you around with a knife, okay? Uh, not that I expect anyone to chase you around trying to knife you-”

“I got it,” James says. “Thank you.”

“Uh, and,” Steve says, “Jarvis is AI. You don't have to say specific phrases, those were examples. You can say 'help' or 'put me somewhere safe' or whatever, and he'll get it.”

James nods.

“Thanks,” he says. “I'm...I appreciate you letting me, you giving me....yeah. I appreciate it.”

Steve smiles, tilts his head hopefully and James goes in for a kiss, but Steve turns his head at the last second, plants one on his cheek instead.

“Two weeks in a bed, I ain’t kissin’ your mouth ‘til I’ve found a toothbrush.” James sits back down. “Anyway, there you are. Hopefully you'll never need it,” he says. “But now it's there if you ever do.”

James nods.

“Yeah,” he says, and he squeezes Steve’s fingers again, presses his lips together in a smile. “Yeah.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ‘show’ that James’ dad liked, about the two guys on the same team in a relationship, is based on a Canadian show called Flashpoint. It’s not actually the show, because spoilers. I’m also not even going to pretend that’s not where I got the phrase “Strategic Response Unit.” But if you want to go watch Flashpoint, I recommend it. It starts off a little slow, gets a little dangerously shark-jumpy in the last-but-one season, but pulls it back. It’s still one of the best shows I’ve ever seen and it knew when to stop. Unlike other programs which may or may not be abbreviatable into clever acronyms. 
> 
>  
> 
> If you’re interested in meteorology but didn’t check it out yet, the weather phenomena I listed are as follows:
> 
>  **[Turquoise skies](https://www.google.com/search?q=green+sky+storm&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjuyNrjjsPfAhUaSBUIHa-MD-UQ_AUIDigB&biw=1366&bih=577) \- ** actually [there’s some debate about this](https://weather.com/science/weather-explainers/news/green-sky-thunderstorm-hail) but general consensus is that it’s to do with light diffraction  
> [ **Clouds that look like saucers - Altocumular lenticularis** , ](https://www.google.com/search?ei=dmYmXJr0JLqd1fAPwuuZ8AY&q=lenticular+clouds&oq=lenticular+clouds&gs_l=psy-ab.3..35i39l2j0i67l2j0i131l2j0l3j0i131.1086.2607..2757...0.0..0.300.300.3-1......0....1..gws-wiz.vM2dK55vxgc)which form perpendicular to wind, in the troposphere  
>  **[Clouds the look like bubble wrap - mammatus clouds,](https://www.google.com/search?q=mammatus+clouds&oq=mammatus+clouds&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j69i60j0l4.1828j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)** for which one theory is that they’re formed when ice crystals (people who like funky clouds have so much to thank ice crystals for) drop out of a cumulonimbus cloud’s anvil. But it’s one of many theories, so keep an open mind. (Also thanks, meteorologists, for clouds named after boobs. Etymologists who noticed that already, what up!)  
>  **[Sparks of lightning that stretch upward](https://www.google.com/search?q=upward+lightning&oq=upward+lightning&aqs=chrome.0.69i59j0l5.1801j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)\- ** I mean, there’s no special name, it’s called **[upward lightning](https://www.google.com/search?q=upward+lightning&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjGs4Gtj8PfAhWmThUIHZnxD3kQ_AUIDigB&biw=1366&bih=577)**. It’s hella awesome tho. (Insert Hela joke about Thor here)  
>  **[Bright red bursts up above cloud level - Sprites!!](https://www.google.com/search?q=lightning+sprites&oq=lightning+sprites&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.1843j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)** Oh man sprites are cool. They're electrical discharges that happen during superbright lightning storms, and [people have sent super-high aircraft to go searching for them](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MEFdMskaWZo), they’re super tough to catch.
> 
> Also look up **[circumhorizontal arcs,](https://www.google.com/search?q=circumhorizontal+arc&oq=circumhorizontal+arc&aqs=chrome..69i57j0l5.4428j0j4&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)** which are a real and _totally cool_ member of the ice halo family (like [sundogs](https://www.google.com/search?ei=hGcmXLSxNpCO1fAPttqu8AQ&q=sundog&oq=sundog&gs_l=psy-ab.3..0i71l8.30139.30139..30322...0.0..0.0.0.......0....1..gws-wiz.lq6eg7LbkDY)), and are also called fire rainbows, and then take a gander at **[noctilucent clouds](https://www.google.com/search?q=noctilucent+clouds&oq=noctilucent&aqs=chrome.0.35i39j69i57j0l4.3139j0j9&sourceid=chrome&ie=UTF-8)** , also totes cool and to do with ice crystals. (See what I mean about funky clouds and ice crystals?)
> 
> And if you like this kind of stuff, go follow a guy on YouTube called [Pecos Hank](https://www.youtube.com/user/honkytonkblood) \- he’s my fave storm chaser, with an awesome attitude, a penchant for rescuing animals, a lovely voice, and the talent to play his own soundtracks.


	2. Chapter 2

He and Sam are moving the furniture around when Jarvis tells him they can go upstairs. 

They’ve moved the tall stools away from the breakfast island, they’ve pushed the coffee table way away out to one of the walls so that nothing trip any of them if they want to get to the couch.

James has changed the bedsheets and fluffed the couch cushions, Sam has spoken to Jarvis about the air-con settings and put the shower chair in the en suite. They’ve both made sure there are extra chairs (brought up by Dana and Eddie and a couple of others) spaced out at various intervals, so that Steve can sit down wherever he is if he runs out of energy halfway to somewhere. 

The refrigerator is stocked with things to make easy, nutritional comfort food that won’t put a strain on Steve’s injuries at any point in his digestive system, the cupboard full of tins of broths and soups, jars of peanut butter, bars of chocolate. There are dressings, and James has already put the nitrile gloves in the bathroom, with the painkillers. The nutes are ready on the kitchen counter, with some more in the en suite. 

James isn’t sure what to feel - excitement, anxiety, exhaustion - but he keeps running through checklists in his head of things he knows Steve likes, things he thinks Steve might like. 

He has a moment of wondering what the fuck he’s gonna do about Steve’s libido but he’s got hands, don’t he? He can manage a handjob or a blowjob and that ought to tide Steve over for a while if he needs.

“I think that’s everything,” James says, because he thinks it is. Wait, new sheets? Oh, wait, no, he already changed the bedsheets. And he’ll find blankets and all sorts, he’s gonna wrap Steve up like a gift on Christmas if that’s what Steve wants, make him a nest of pillows or a pile of blankets, find him soft sweaters and loose pants. “Is that everything?”

Sam glances at him, smiles to himself.

“Probably,” Sam says. “Word of advice,”and he fishes a teaspoon out of the cutlery drawer before handing it to James, “do not take anything he says in the next few days personally.” 

James frowns, finds a jar of peanut butter and sets it out. 

“What do you mean?” he says - after all, he and Steve haven’t even had a mild disagreement aside from the coffee place, and Steve’s a total sweetheart around him, soft-spoken and kind even though James has seen Steve barking orders on the news. 

“I mean you’ve heard of ‘hangry,’ right?” 

“Sure,” James says. 

Sam turns around, leans back against the counter.

“Well picture hangry but for everything, not just food. Exercise, sleep, not-sleeping, drinking, working, talking, being quiet - all of it - but then powered by the serum.” 

James chews the inside of his cheek. 

“Right,” he says. “So…Uh, so he’ll be pissy?” 

“He’ll be _Pissy,_ ” Sam says. “With a capital ‘P’.” 

“And that stands for pool,” James says, nodding as he turns to go pull the electric kettle out of its cupboard. “Okay, I gotcha.” 

Sam blinks. 

“I mean it, though,” he says. “It sounds like it might be fun or cute or whatever but it’s not - he’s not in control after an injury, and it took me too long to figure it out, too. I spent a little while thinkin’ he was just a mean asshole when he got hit but it ain’t like that. The serum affects brain chemistry, affects what his body needs - it behaves like an addiction.” 

James frowns. 

“Like cigarettes?” he says, and Sam tilts his head from side to side. 

“I’d say stronger than that,” he says. “Addict needs a fix, serum needs what it needs - sleep, food, whatever. Just make sure you keep an eye out for the _this-is-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now_ part, okay? He goes all _target-acquired_ and forgets he ain’t five foot’n a hundred pounds. You call us if you need us.”

“Yeah?” James says. “I mean, yeah. I will.” 

Sam nods. 

“Good,” he says. “And Jarvis’ll keep an eye on the two of you anyway. Someone’ll come look after him if you want to go to work.” 

James smiles a little.

“I’m not sure I’m gonna be goin’ anywhere for a while,” he says. 

_“Sirs?”_ Jarvis says. _“The Commander is ready to be accompanied downstairs.”_

James happens to think that’s a very subtle way of saying ‘Steve’s needs your help now,’ but he’s not about to say anything about it.

“Thanks, Jay,” Sam says. “You an’ me goin’ to get the war hero?”

James snorts.

“Yeah, I got nothin’ better to do.”

~

Steve’s dressed when they get there, things packed into the big gray duffel, with Gari helping him into slippers. Steve can move his legs but he can’t bend, can’t lift his leg either. Gari goes over the nutrient and rest instructions again - no strenuous activity for a month, of _any_ kind wink wink (he actually says wink wink), two pills with each meal and four with the evening meal, plus a shake at least twice a day, try and lie down for most of the next couple of days. Check-ins on the regular, updates if they’re asked for, rest, fluids and, above all else, common sense. 

“Well, shit,” Steve says.

“It’s okay, I’ll lend you some of mine,” Sam answers, and Steve has enough energy to smile, anyway. 

They make sure they’ve got everything, even though they’re literally only a couple of floors away if they forget anything, and then Steve is able, with James and Sam under his arms, their arms around him, to shuffle off his bed and out to the corridor, where a weird sort of low, slow, indoor vehicle is waiting for them. There’s a sloped step, which Steve shuffles ‘up’ until they can sort of…arrange him on the seat, and then he and Sam get on, too. Then it _bee-beeps_ and sets off with all of them aboard. 

It’s like one of those weird roofless golf buggies you get at airports, James thinks, except either automated or-

No, this is Avengerville, there’s no way it’s automated. It’s AI, or controlled by Jarvis if not self-sufficient.

“Happy you’re goin’ home?” James asks, and Steve’s gaze slides across to meet his own.

“Happy to be leavin’ that room anyhow,” he says which…alright, not necessarily the answer he was hoping for but better than ‘no’ anyway.

~

Sam tells them he’s not coming with them when they reach the elevator. The elevator to Steve’s front door, when they get down to his floor, is only like ten, fifteen feet, so they won’t need the buggy. Steve and James both thank him for his help, his support. In fact, things are fine when they get off the buggy and fine when they get in the elevator. Jarvis even slows the speed of the elevator car so as not to jolt Steve.

It’s once they get back downstairs that there’s a problem - and it’s only that Sam’s pre-warned him that stops James catapulting himself headfirst into an argument he probably can’t win. 

Who’s he kidding? He’d never win - if Steve couldn’t outsmart him tactically he’d out-stubborn him.

James is ready - as he is with everyone he knows - to make sure Steve follows doctor’s orders, because he cares very much about Steve. He’s also ready - as he is with everyone he knows - to fuss and coddle, and basically take care of Steve while he recovers. He’s looking forward to it, in fact - to fetching and carrying, maybe read to him if he wants, maybe try feeding him little morsels and holding his head up so he can drink, fingers gentle in Steve’s hair, clean, soft white covers like a nest around them, to treating Steve with all the love and care he’s shown to James.

And James’ intention is to relay all this information once Steve is safely in bed and propped up by pillows, but they don’t get that far. James steers them towards the corridor that will lead them to Steve’s room, intending to get them both there, but Steve leans off to the side, arm sliding off James' shoulders.

For a moment, James thinks he's dropping Steve or something and moves to try and slow his fall (because no way could James catch him) but, as it turns out, he's deliberately leaning on the doorframe. 

"What is it?" James asks, ducking to better see Steve's face. 

" 'M okay," he says, " 'M gonna sit down." 

"I can get you to the bedroom if you-" 

"Sweetheart," Steve says on a sigh, "I've just spent _days_ in bed. I'd like to sit up for the afternoon, I'd like a warm drink-" 

"Gari said you needed to lie down for-" 

"James," Steve says, "darling," and then he looks at James from under his eyebrows and, for the first time, James is actually struck by the difference in their ages, actually a little cowed by it. "Please let's not have our first fight about whether or not I can have a cup of tea on my own couch, alright?" 

James frowns, takes a step back. 

"Only if you answer something for me first," he says, and Steve takes a large breath and sighs through his nose. 

"Ask," he says, and James tries to remember they're meant to be equals, Steve isn't his father. 

"If Gari said you're supposed to lie down, which he did, and you want to get better, which you do, can you blame me for worrying?" 

Steve looks at him for a long time, very intensely, and then narrows his eyes just a little. 

"James, I'm trying to be reasonable about this," he says, "and I'm going to tell you now, being reasonable is really, really difficult right now. Okay? The serum really doesn’t like injury so my current physical state is affecting my mental state, which makes it really difficult to avoid confrontation. I'm tired, in a lot of pain, and my blood sugar is very low, which is makin' me pissy, and I acknowledge none’a that’s your fault, so let me be clear. What the serum would like me to do is eat and drink as many calories as I can fit in my perforated stomach, and then sleep for two weeks. Literally, gorge and hibernate - no hyperbole. Medically, that's awful. So what Gari would like me to do is keep my fluids and my blood sugars up, and lie down for most of this afternoon. Emphasis on _most._ " James chews the inside of his cheek to bite back the retort he can feel behind his teeth. "What _I_ would like to do is follow my doctor's orders and have a cup of tea on my living room couch before I sleep until an evening meal. Now, James, I love you dearly and I don't doubt that you want what's best for me," Steve says, and it's really strange - James can _hear_ him losing patience. "but it _will_ become an argument if you don’t drop it because, firstly, this is not my first rodeo and, secondly, the way I feel right now, I _really want_ an argument.”

James tries not to clench his teeth, tries not to set his jaw. 

"How are you taking your tea?" he grinds out instead, and he knows he's not good enough at disguising his body language to have fooled Steve but he also doesn't much care. 

"Half milk, three teaspoons of sugar unless you're using the Starbucks mug, and then it's six," Steve says, without a please or a thank you. 

James swallows back his incredulity and bites his tongue. 

"Can you get to the couch?" he says instead. 

"I can," Steve answers. 

And it _is_ strange. James feels uncomfortable as he turns to go make the tea but takes comfort in the fact that Steve is not this person - this person is cranky and short-tempered and confrontational, and didn't even say _thanks._

But that's the thing about bad moods - they're catching. 

James makes the tea, stirs in the three sugars - because fuck it, okay, he's not making Steve a bucket of tea when Steve might very well pass out halfway through and fucking burn himself to fuck. Which, okay he wouldn't because half the liquid is cold milk but still. Okay so it's to deprive Steve of tea out of spite. If Steve wants more tea, he’ll have to ask for it. Nicely. 

James gets back to the coffee table once it’s made and plonks it down, and Steve just raises one eyebrow at him before he starts leaning forward to it. James does feel guilty just as soon as he watches Steve wince - of course Steve can’t lean forward for it, _shit_ -

“No, look, here,” he says, picks it up and sits down next to Steve, trying not to jostle him, annoyed, sure, but he’s not a fuckin’ sadist.

He holds the mug up, and Steve lifts his left arm unsteadily, trying to support the bottom of the mug. His hand is huge, so he could do it by himself almost easily, but James isn’t about to risk it. He tries to tilt the mug at a reasonable pace, and Steve keeps up - of course he does. He also looks at James as he breathes into the mug, and a small motion of his chin tells James when to stop.

Then he sinks gingerly back into the couch, head back, mouth open, arms limp. He looks like James feels after a run, and he’s breathing like it too. 

“Do you-” James says, just as Steve says,

“James,” and then there’s an awkward few seconds where neither of them is sure what to say.

But James looks at Steve, watches his face for any kind of clue as to what he meant or when he’ll keep speaking, and Steve just shakes his head, his right hand kind of twitching towards James.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he does sound breathless, he does sound like he’s in pain, “I’m sorry. James, I’m-”

“I just,” James says, “want you to-”

“It’s the,” Steve answers, and he shakes his head a little, eyes slipping closed as his fingers uncurl, “blood sugar, it’s the serum. I’m always an asshole when I’m shot, baby, I’m sorry-”

“Steve,” James says, but Steve’s fingers are still moving, and James tries taking his hand to see if that’s what he wants.

It is.

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says again but he…

Oh wow, okay, he’s out already. 

James looks down at their hands, turns them a little, and then rubs the back of Steve’s hand with thumb.

Well, okay. So that’s probably James’ whole afternoon.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, there's graphic description of healing gunshot wounds. If you’re not okay with that, skip the first part of this chapter, which is the detailed description of Steve’s healing wounds, and instead Ctrl+F the words _I’m gonna be okay_ which should take you past it and drop you at the beginning of the next scene, at the phrase,
> 
> _“I’m gonna be okay,” Steve’d said. “One-hundred percent recovery.”_
> 
> I also don’t recommend googling the medical phrasing at the beginning of this chapter unless you have no problem with gore, because I’m describing (and searching will therefore yield pictures of) severe gunshot inflicted injury.
> 
>  **Police Camera Action voice:** Viewer discretion is advised.

By Sunday, Steve is able to take the shower he’s been trying to convince James to let him have since Friday. His dressings can come off and stay off today - although Gari showed up the day before to change them one last time. Steve let James stay, too, which means that he was able to see just how bad newly healed gunshot wounds look.

And, to be quite honest, James thinks he did pretty well not to freak the fuck out.

James had never seen gunshot wounds except in fleeting glances on the Internet. He’d seen plenty of fake ones, but real ones were ones he’d always tried not to look at. Steve’s wounds are in the ‘proliferating’ stage, according to Gari, but that doesn’t change the fact that what James was expecting (circles with ridged edges) and what James saw (extensive physical trauma) are two very different things.

What James noticed first, looking at Steve’s back while Gari eased the dressing tape from the hair on Steve’s chest and stomach, was that he could see three wounds. Two on the left side of Steve’s back, low down, and one on the right. Of the ones on the left, James knows now, the first is down in the top curve of Steve’s left buttock and the second is near to where James might point if someone asked him where Steve’s kidney is. The third, on the right-hand side,is just below the bottom of Steve’s shoulder blade. (James’ limited medical knowledge reminded him this was good as soon as he saw it - a shattered scapula wouldn’t be anyone’s idea of fun.) What’s more, James is aware now that, in their current state, the wounds are red not-quite circles, about the size of a quarter, and they’re _dents_. They look like craters pressed into Steve’s skin like thumbprints in clay, sunken in and dark and dry inside, light around the edges of the wound, darker again outside that, in a ring of purplish bruising.

But Steve was shot four times, not three and so, tearing his gaze from the first three wounds, he had leaned, tilted his head, and tried to see the fourth.

If someone had taken a knife and made a hasty attempt to try and cut Steve’s arm off in one go, James imagines it might look something like what he saw on the outside of Steve’s right shoulder. A gouge just as dark inside as the bullet holes drew a ‘v’ shaped trench in Steve’s arm, front to back, in a way that looked like it could never heal to be what it was, something like that looked like it ought to be a permanent change. And, James supposes, it might well be in anyone else. 

By the time he’d managed to tear his gaze from the wounds to look up, he found that Steve was looking back at him, expression neutral.

“Okay?” he’d asked, and James had swallowed hard, felt himself frown, and closed his mouth once he realized it had been open.

“I,” he’d said, because no, not really. “No, not really. Better than I could be I guess, ‘cause you’re okay. Right?”

“Right,” Steve said and then, because this was Steve all over, he turned back towards James a little, held out his good arm. “C’mere. Come get it over with.”

James stood up as soon as Steve held a hand out, but then hesitated. Of course he wanted to know, of course he ought to see. 

“It’s okay,” Steve had said, like he might be talking to a frightened animal. “Take your time.” 

James had, eventually, taken Steve’s hand in his own and then come around to stand with Gari, to get a proper look. And wow, _wow_ it was so much worse. 

He’d thought of crime programs first, the crime dramas his parents got into when he was younger - phrases like ‘entry wound’ and ‘exit wound’ and ‘GSW’ and ‘trauma’ and all of those because, where he’d seen weird little thumbprints and a shoulder injury from the back, the front shows a guy who barely escaped with his life, and wouldn’t have if he’d been an ordinary dude. James can immediately tell, looking at Steve face to face, that Steve was shot from behind. 

Steve’s left hip, as James looked at it, was swollen and discolored, but there was no exit wound - hence the fractured hip. His shoulder looked worse from the front than it did from the back, ending in big, curved semicircle, instead of the back, where it started narrow. But the wounds on his chest and stomach…

“You almost died,” he’d heard himself say, and Steve had squeezed his fingers.

What James did not know before but knows now is that, on Steve’s chest and stomach, are two wounds that not quite as dark or sunken as the holes on his back, covered by a layer of thick, uneven scab. They are, roughly, the size of the palm of James’ hand. 

There’s one on his stomach on the left, one on his chest on the right and, as Steve mentioned before, the one on the right is over the curve of his pectoral, so that a good chunk of flesh is missing - including his right nipple. James hadn’t meant to stare, but he’d also been astounded. The wounds looked like they’d been scrubbed at with a scouring pad, surrounded by abrasion and bruising. James had almost reached out to touch in disbelief, but held back.

“I’m gonna be okay,” Steve’d said. “One-hundred percent recovery.”

James had nodded, stunned, and then stood aside while Gari ran the last of his checks.

But what this means is that, today, when Steve stands naked in the middle of the bathroom, the four wounds in a diagonal across his body to tell the type of story that might end with ‘and then he died’ were it anyone else, James isn’t as thrown (if by ‘thrown’ you mean ‘hurled against a wall’) as he might have been if he hadn’t already seen the wounds before.

“You,” he says however, because there’s something else that he’s noticed immediately now that Steve is naked.

And, in fact, when he notices it today, he realizes that he noticed it yesterday but somehow forgot to register it until right now.

“What?” Steve rasps.

So it turns out that... Okay so Steve has (after understandably doing no personal grooming of his own for two weeks) gathered a great deal of chest hair, and a substantial treasure-trail of body hair that…well…leads down to a more. Not too much but like. Yeah. There it is, an impressive thatch of dark blond. And then his dick. 

Is James ever going to be able to stop staring at his dick.

“Oh,” Steve says. “I’ll see to it later, I’m not-”

“No,” James says, reaching out for him, “no, no, honey, no,” and Steve looks mildly surprised to have been called ‘honey’ as James takes his hand, as James steps close and touches Steve’s face - his beard, more like. “I don’t mind! I don’t mind at all, I just noticed. That’s all, I just noticed.”

Steve sort of raises one eyebrow and looks mildly skeptical. But wait.

Wait a second.

“Wait, you told me you couldn’t grow it,” James says, and Steve’s mouth twitches, he rolls his eyes and steps away. “like, when I asked you, why…” Oh my God. “Wait.” _Oh my God._ “Does this mean _you shave your chest?”_

Steve is very still and very silent for a very long moment.

“You try wearing a para-aramid composite suit and having chest hair,” he says, and James cackles. “All the little holes, it’s like— Ever caught your pubes in your fly?”

James’ eyes almost water just thinking about it, but he clutches at his stomach as he laughs harder. Oh wow, Steve shaves his chest.

“I mean, if you wore underwear that last thing wouldn’t happen,” he points out.

“You’re not my real dad,” Steve answers, eyes narrowed, and James laughs even harder. 

It takes him a few seconds to subside, too, but then he takes a good look at Steve, as Steve shuffles toward the cloud-loofah thing and picks it up from by the sink, which is where it’s been for the past few days because all Steve’s been permitted is a good wash.

“Listen, do you want me to do it?” James says, and Steve tilts his head. "Shave you?"

“Ruin the surprise. I wanted to suggest that for _you_ when I was better,” he says. “If you’d let me near you with a razor.”

James blinks, tries not to think about the mental image that presents, especially considering there isn’t a lot that James shave and what he _does_ shave is pretty intimate, (also, _wow_ , razor, not electric shaver or something?) because Steve’s sick and it wouldn’t be fair to either of them for James to get worked up about it now.

“I mean I probably would but like wow okay?” James says.

Steve starts shuffling towards the shower.

“Well it’s up to you. Honestly, I don’t give a fuck about mine right now,” he says, and James strips as quickly as he can to go help. “I’ll deal with it when I’m better.”

“Don’t worry about it,” James says, hopping as he gets his socks off, then shoving his pants and boxers down. “Please, don’t, I-I like it, you could…”

Steve turns around and looks at him, and James doesn’t quite balk but it’s a close thing. 

“I could…?” he says, and James wets his lips, looks Steve up and down.

“How long’s it take to grow?” he asks, and Steve tilts his head this way and that for a moment.

“Few days,” he says. “Doesn’t grow as fast as my beard - about the same as the stuff on my head.”

James nods.

“You could leave it?” he says. “If you wanted, obviously. Like, if you…” okay, this is coming out terribly, “if you want to shave, obviously, you shave, like _obviously_ it’s totally up to you, like no worries. And I guess you, like, you never know when the alarm’s gonna go. Like you don’t know if suddenly somebody needs all the Avengers, I totally get it. But like if you wanted to let it grow when you’re not on duty, I’m not-” he clears his throat. “I would,” he shakes his head. “Just…I hope you’re not shaving for me. You know? If you were, you wouldn’t need to.”

Steve watches him for another long few moments.

“I do shave it ‘cause I don’t know when I’ll be on duty,” he says. “But I think I could manage one whole mission with my suit tryin’ to wax my chest for me once in a while. If you’d like fuzzy me sometimes.”

James feels himself smile.

“You don’t have to, obviously.”

“Obviously,” Steve repeats. 

“But I wouldn’t mind it if you did.”

Steve nods, smiles a little.

“That’s fine,” he says, and he lifts his left arm, opens the door of the shower, and then winces, hisses through his teeth as he lifts his leg over the threshold. 

James darts forward to stand behind him, hands out in case Steve slips (not that it would do much good, he’s sure - Steve would probably crush him but death by eight tons of assorted muscle ain’t a bad way to go), and then, when Steve has finally managed to get into the shower, James follows him in and shuts the door. 

“Okay, Jarv,” Steve says, and the water comes on automatically while Steve lowers himself carefully onto the shower chair. 

“All this time I thought you were a Jock,” James says, “but you’re secretly a Wolf.”

Steve heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“I’m told I used to be a twink,” he says. “I’ve got no fuckin’ idea what the rest’a that shit means.”

James laughs again.

“I’d’ve fucked you whatever,” he says, and then wants to bite his tongue off.

“Well that’s nice to hear,” Steve says, and James suspects from the tone of his voice that he might have laughed if he’d felt up to it. 

“Which shower gel do you want?” James asks, because there are a couple of his in here these days, and then Steve looks surprised, of all things. 

“Huh?” he says. “No, it’s okay, I’m just- I can do it, you just gotta make sure I don’t fall or…”

James looks at him, as in, gives him _a look_ , and Steve searches James’ face with his eyes. 

“You…don’t gotta,” he says, “I can manage,” and James shrugs. 

“I know,” he says, and then he smiles. “’Obviously.’ But I wanna. So if you want me to get outta the shower, I can go, or if you want me to stand here and look all sexy naked, I can do that too.” The corner of Steve’s mouth lifts. “Or you could let me put conditioner in your chest hair.”

Steve laughs, a sudden bark, and then winces, presses his loofah hand to his stomach, but still chuckles.

“You _want_ to,” he says, as though he’s surprised, and then he chuckles a little more. 

James takes a step closer, leans down and kisses him briefly.

“You wash what you wanna wash, make sure you’re clean around the-” deep breath, James “-bullet holes, and then I’ll come over there and treat the other bits nice.”

Steve looks at him for a little longer, and then seems to shrink a little, not holding himself quite as rigidly, not keeping quite such good posture. Then he sighs, eyes closed.

“I’m gonna say something,” he says, “and I’m gonna be honest about it. And I don’t want to, but I am. Okay?”

James nods.

“Okay,” he says.

“That sounds real nice of you,” Steve says. “And I would like it very much.”

James hears the unspoken _but_ and waits. 

Except Steve doesn’t say anything else. 

James frowns. 

Was there no unspoken _but_?

“Okay?” he says, and Steve seems to sag _even more_ , was he seriously tense about asking James to do something James has already- He doesn’t want to ask for things for himself. It’s a pattern, James has noticed it, they’ve even mentioned it. He doesn’t like to ask for things for himself. “That’s great,” James says. “I’m glad you could tell me, I’ll be happy to do it.”

He wants to have a proper conversation about it later, probably when Steve is healed again ‘cause he doesn’t want to push it, and probably not until there’s a really, _really_ good way to segue into it. 

Steve tilts his head back, looks up at James. 

“Thanks,” he says, and closes his eyes. “Thanks.”

“Yeah,” James says, and he picks up the nearest bottle, which happens to be one of his own, and purports to be ‘apple cinnamon cake.’ “You want I should do anything else?”

“You could squeeze me some of that on this,” Steve says, holding the cloud loofah out. “Please.”

“Yeah,” James nods, clicks the cap and does as he’s asked. 

“And then you can just stand there all sexy naked until I need you to pass me a showerhead.”

James beams.

“Sir, yes, Sir.”

~

As it turns out, Steve isn’t trying to have an entire full-body cleanse. He scrubs most of his throat with the cloud loofah held in his left hand, gingerly scrubs under his right arm though he can’t raise his actual arm that much. Then, even though he can raise his left arm, he can’t reach very easily with his right, so that's difficult too. James would help, but Steve hasn’t asked him to, and he gets the feeling this isn’t the first time Steve’s had to wash himself while not a hundred percent. He gets the feeling that this is something Steve wants to prove to himself he can do, too. 

Steve doesn’t bother with his legs or his feet, doesn’t try and clean his back, and only barely washes around the injuries. They hurt, James can see that. 

He scrubs the good side of his chest and then the good side of his stomach, and then his thighs because they’re close. He asks for the showerhead and rinses off. And then he sighs again, leans with his arm across his lap, tired. 

“Okay,” James says, taking the showerhead and the initiative, because he can. “I’m’a wash your head hair first and then we’ll see what else, okay?”

Steve smiles a little, nods, and then James moves to stand behind him, covers Steve’s forehead with his hand and eases him back until his head rests against James’ stomach. His hair doesn’t take long - Steve asks him not to do the beard which, like…fair enough. He doesn’t want to accidentally get shampoo or conditioner in Steve’s mouth. Steve nearly goes to sleep when James is working the shampoo into the crown of his head, and then doesn’t say anything when James rinses the conditioner out a few minutes later.

James comes to kneel down in front of Steve, scrubs wet, non-soapy fingers through some of Steve’s chest hair, but avoids most of it given that the injuries are close. And then he follows the treasure trail down - only bothers with conditioner, the rest can wait until Steve’s up to doing it himself - and very carefully conditions the new, coarse hair between Steve’s legs. He leans forward when he does, kisses Steve, and Steve lets himself be kissed, sets his good hand on James’ shoulder for support. 

James doesn’t really know what kind of reaction he’s expecting - not much of one, of course, given that Steve’s still seriously injured. And he’s not insulted, not by any means, but he is a little surprised when he finds that, despite his slick, careful fingers, the reaction is…nothing. 

He pulls back and looks at Steve, thinks twice before he looks down to check, but Steve must figure it out anyway. Expression neutral, he says, 

“Happens,” very quietly, barely audible over the sound of the running water. “Sorry.”

James shakes his head, lifts his other hand to push Steve’s wet hair off his forehead.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “Sounds like it ain’t the first time, it’ll come back. Even if it didn’t, ‘s not the end’a the world, is it?” 

Steve is breathing heavily, but in a way that suggests staying awake is becoming hard work.

“Come on,” James says, fetching the showerhead down to rinse, which he does quickly and efficiently. “Lets go to bed.”

While Steve’s sitting down, he scrubs what water he can out of Steve’s hair with a smaller towel, and then he sets down non-slip mats before Steve attempts to stand. He helps Steve out of the shower, helps Steve towel himself dry in the bathroom, and then leaves Steve for like two minutes to grab him track pants and that zippered hoodie he likes. If it were the one without a zipper, he’d have to lift his arms to get into it, which would be like…so far from ideal, so this is a better plan. Plus, the zipper doesn’t sit directly over any of Steve’s healing wounds, so he’ll be able to be comfortable.

He helps Steve into the hoodie, bad arm first, and then zips it up. And he flips the hood up before he arranges the track pants on the floor so that Steve can step into them. Steve uses James for support again, but that’s fine. That’s absolutely fine. James pulls the pants up until they’re at Steve’s waist, and they hang a little loose, but that’s to be expected.

“You can have a couple nutes,” he says. “You okay on pain?”

“Mmmh,” Steve says, nods.

His eyes are half closed. 

James retrieves the nutes and runs a glass of water from the bathroom faucet for Steve to take them, which he does. Then James takes Steve to bed. 

“Oh wow,” Steve mutters, because James has made the nest of quilts and pillows he was thinking about.

“This okay?” James asks, and Steve nods.

“This looks great,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks.”

James nods, too.

“Sure,” he says. “Come on, lie down.”

And Steve does - shuffles over with James, and the two of them ease him down together.

James goes back and closes the bathroom door, asks Jarvis for some of the sim-candescents and then asks him to black out the windows. Steve is half asleep by the time James gets in the ‘nest’ with him, but still shifts restlessly as James gets closer. Steve’s in the hollow of the quilts and pillows, supported over his injuries, head up enough that he’ll be able to breathe properly, and James lies next to him so that he can look down at him if he wants to, Steve’s head about level with his chest.

“What’s the matter, baby?” James murmurs, and there’s a pause before Steve answers.

"Can you crowd me?" Steve says quietly, looking somewhere between awkward and nervous, as though he’s worried about something but also thinks he shouldn't be worried. 

"Sure," James says, and he gathers Steve a little closer, gets his arm under Steve's neck and his body against Steve's. 

Like this, James is slightly further up than Steve is, and it makes it easier for Steve to turn his head against James, so that James basically cradles Steve's head and shoulders against him. 

Anythin' I did?" he murmurs, but Steve shakes his head.

“Just need a little less me and a little more you,” he says, pushes himself closer still. “Used to be easier to hold.”

James tries not to let the little sad things Steve says get to him too much, but it’s not always easy. _Used to be easier to hold_ smacks of _I’ve been told I’m difficult to cuddle_ , which is fucking unconscionable in James’ opinion.

“Fuck no, get in here,” James says, in a way that’s closer to an admonishment than he’d like - but he’s not mad at Steve, he’s mad at whichever dick told Steve he was _tough to fucking hug,_ Christ on a Cracker. James squeezes Steve tight as he dares, rubs his leg up against Steve’s and then gets it over Steve’s when Steve doesn’t complain, clings like an octopus and then covers the top of Steve’s hooded head with little kisses. “You want me to fuckin’ squish you, I’m’a fuckin’ _squish_ you.”

Steve chuckles thinly against James’ shoulder, rubs his nose against James’ throat.

“Yeah, I want you to fuckin’ squish me,” he says, smile in his voice, and James does, gives him an extra squeeze for good measure, strokes his back to keep him warm because it feels like he should, avoiding the wounds.

“Want I should lie on you?” he says. “You strong enough for that yet?”

“Mh,” Steve says, “prob’ly strong enough but I’d rather like this. This way I’m like, you’re…it’s…closer.”

James gets it. It’s like a cocoon. He’s half on top of Steve already anyhow, it’s no harder for James either way.

“I love you,” James says. “I love you, and I don’t care who said you was tough to fuckin’ hug, you could be a giant fuckin’ jack-o-lantern, you could be sixty feet tall, you could be a fuckin’ slime monster and I don’t care, I wouldn’t care. I fuckin’ love you, you want a hug, I’ll fuckin’ squish you.”

“Hmm, you’re sweet to me,” Steve says.

“We’re gonna talk about this when you’re better,” James says, and it _has_ made him angry, it _does_ make his chest ache. “And it’s a cryin’ shame someone good as you ain’t been treated nice enough to understand, I could murder whichever idiot put it into your head that you ain’t worth bein’ sweet to, ain’t worth makin’ an effort for. You want a hug, I’ll hug you. You want a kiss, I’ll kiss you. It ain’t a hardship, it ain’t a chore or a duty - it’s what you deserve and I enjoy fuckin’ doin’ it, okay?”

One of Steve’s arms is tucked up between them but the other is around James’ back, and he knows this because it lifts a moment later and slides down his spine.

In the very loud silence that follows James’ words, he hears Steve take a very long, very deep breath.

“Okay,” he says, warm against James’ throat.

And then he lies still, and breathes evenly, and sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is [a link to a timeline](https://66.media.tumblr.com/aac4be76b217f7b6ea54592e0a76d168/tumblr_inline_pg5mcewTA21rckout_500.png) if you'd like to know the dates of the occurrences in this fic up to part 10.
> 
>  
> 
> During writing the shower scene, I remembered news that I’d read that was relevant to my family and may well be relevant to yours. If you haven’t seen this news already, it’s being reported that Johnson & Johnson, who produce (amongst other things) talcum powder, **have known since the 1950s that there was an unacceptable level of asbestos in their talcum powder, continued to sell it by lying to monitoring authorities, and quite possibly caused thousands of cases of cancer.** [This is provable info and I’ll link you the article I read which told me, but I’m not seeing it making waves in the media here even though there are currently 11,700 people suing them over this overseas.](https://www.reuters.com/investigates/special-report/johnsonandjohnson-cancer/) They’ve since published rebuttals but they keep phrasing it ‘talc doesn’t cause cancer’ which is like… not the issue, we’re talking asbestos hidden in it. And, one more time, it’s provable that they knew, there are photos of documents. ANYWAY I wanted to spread this info as far as I can, so there you go, an FYI ‘cause I care.


End file.
